MacRae nodded. “Maybe they want to keep their missiles under their hat. Lots of eyes on the Invincible. We’re supposed to use discretion in the employment of advanced technology—or so we were told.”
“True, but they would have informed Tovey if they were breaking off. This message makes it sound like the bloody ship simply vanished!”
MacRae looked at him. “Like we did?” he said with a grin. “I’m sure you noticed that. In fact, I’ve often wondered if anyone on the tankers saw us go. Poof! One minute we were there—the next minute we were here.”
“You’re suggesting they moved like we did—in time?” said Morgan.
“From what we’ve learned that ship has been in and out of this pub more than once—shifting all through this history!”
“Well good riddance.” Morgan rubbed his hands. “No offense meant to our new Russian allies, of course, but we ought to finish off this pint, pick up our coat, and be on our way ourselves. I’ve already had my fill of World War Two.”
“You fancy number three?” said MacRae. “I would have given even odds that we’d be at the bottom of the Aegean Sea by now if we were back on our old beat.”
“That may be so, Gordie, but this situation is bonkers. It’s creepy. Did you know about all this—her ladyship and all? This business with the Watch?”
“Can’t say as I did. No, her ladyship had the sheep’s wool pulled down over both our eyes on that count. She was running us about on one mission or another. Remember all those quiet nights in the Indian Ocean? I thought we were out there to run deep field surveys for future oil operations. Turns out that was all a ruse, and you, my good man, bought it hook, line and sinker.”
“Well it’s not like I had any say in the matter,” Morgan protested, his hand scratching his thick black beard. “Look here, Gordie. What’s this rendezvous all about?”
“Rodney ran afoul of a U-Boat and took a torpedo. We’re here to provide fleet air defense. That Russian boat is down there with us, somewhere, and they’ll handle surface threats. That’s all I was told.”
“There’s more to it than that,” said Morgan. “I can smell it. My nose is too damn good, even if I don’t have all my intelligence network assets to keep me in the know as before. Something’s up. Now this message says the bloomin’ Russians have gone missing?”
“We’d better fill in Miss Fairchild,” said MacRae.
“I’ll handle it,” said Morgan, taking the signals message. “But something tells me she may know more about it than either of us.”
“Well, when you find out what’s up. Let me know.” MacRae gave him a wink.”
Morgan went down to the Fairchild executive suite, pressing the bell softly, as if it might ring softly on the other side, though he knew that was a foolish thought. Yet the early hour, and Fairchild herself, gave him pause. He waited for some time, wondering whether he should ring again, and realizing he must. Yet before he could thumb the button the door opened, and Miss Fairchild was standing there in a long cotton robe.
“Yes? What is it, Mack?”
“Signals traffic from Admiral Tovey, Mum. It seems the Russian ship has gone missing.”
He handed off the note, and as she took it, Elena motioned for him to enter. The smell of freshly brewed coffee was in the air, and Mack eyed the pot enviously. Another cup would do him some good. For days now, he had been bothered by something. That nose he had bragged about to MacRae had been itching again, itching in a way that told him something was up. He could feel it, something impending, looming, and it was a most uncomfortable sensation.
Now that message he had received earlier, asking if they had picked up any odd signals, took on more significance. He shared that with Miss Fairchild, thinking she might know something more, and inwardly still upset that he did not know more himself. I’m supposed to be here explaining why all this is happened, he thought, not looking for answers here.
“Can’t SAMPSON see them?” She was referring to the state-of-the-art radar system mounted on the tall mainmast of the ship.
“We were outside our surface coverage radius over an our ago.”
“I see… Then get one of the X-3s up and have a look. How soon until we can board Rodney?”
“Another hour at this speed… Assuming that Russian sub out there does its job and we don’t have unexpected visitors for breakfast. Last word was that the German northern group has split in two. We think the Russians hit their carrier and lighter escorts. But those battleships are making a beeline for our friend out there.”
“That’s why we’re here, Mack. You’d better tell Gordon to stand the men up.”
Morgan waited after that, a brief interval. He wanted to ask if there was really some other reason they were here. After all, why did they need to board the battleship? Was there something wrong with the radio? He knew there was some hidden reason, perhaps this special mission the battleship was assigned—King’s business. He had asked Miss Fairchild if she had an interest in that, but never got much of an answer. One fact remained—his nose. It was itching again, and it told him there was more to all of this than it seemed on the surface.
He would have his answer before his next cup of coffee.
Chapter 29
Some thirty nautical miles up ahead, Gromyko was on the bridge of Kazan, considering a strange situation that had just been reported to him by his sonar man. For some time now, Chernov had been ill at ease. Gromyko had seen him fidgeting at his station, hunched over his equipment, switching on different signal processing filters, as though he were looking for some particular pair of shoes in a dark closet. When he asked him what he was doing, the Sonarman told him he had been asked to listen in on certain frequencies to see if he could detect a signal. Apparently the Sonarman aboard Kirov had gotten hold of something, and wanted a little help from the undersea ears of Kazan.
Chernov worked the problem, until it was decided that the task force would split, and Kazan would accompany the Argos Fire to rendezvous with Rodney. After that Gromyko thought he would forget the matter, but Chernov still seemed to be fussing about with his equipment, almost as if he could simply not let this loose thread go.
“Any problem, Chernov?” he had asked his young Lieutenant.
“No sir. No undersea threats of any note. I was just running some diagnostics.”
“Something wrong?”
“Not that I can determine, sir.”
“Then you are still chewing on that bone Kirov’s Sonarman threw over?”
Chernov smiled. “I think I might have hold of the dog’s leg it came from,” he said. “I picked up an odd signal on the ultralow sonic bands. We get message traffic down there, but this could not be anything coming from our world.”
“No,” said Gromyko. “I don’t suppose it could. Then what is it?”
Gromyko came right to the point. He liked answers, not questions, and the fewer uncertainties he had to deal with, the better.
“I’m not exactly certain yet, Captain. But it has structure. It’s an organized signal—a kind of pulsing wave. It isn’t random, and it isn’t geothermal or of seismic origin. I was just running recordings through some filters to double check that.”
“Let me hear it.”
“Sir? Oh, that won’t work. The signal is below the threshold of our hearing. You might sense it, on one level, but not with your ears—unless they are very good.”
“Like the Sonarman on Kirov?” said Gromyko. “They say he has the best ears in the fleet, Mister Chernov.”
“Tasarov? He’s a good man, sir, and I’ll vouch for that. I studied with him, and he could hear things no one else in the class was even aware of. He’s the best, sir, but our sonar is much better than the equipment he’s working with on Kirov, particularly after they took that damage up front.”
“Very well, Chernov. Carry on, but don’t forget that the Germans might have U-boats out here too.”
“Don’t worry about that, sir. I’ll hear anything that comes within 50
nautical miles of us—even a diesel boat.”
Gromyko knew that Chernov was not boasting. He was also one of the best in the business, and one day he might put a bet or two on his Sonarman in a runoff with this Tasarov fellow. But now he had other fish to fry.
Three German battleships were on a fast heading to intercept the Rodney, and Kazan was on point defense. He was considering how to handle the matter, thinking through the cards in his hand. He still had ten Onyx missiles, but reports from Kirov indicated they were not as effective as hoped against the heavy side armor of these ships, and only three were now programmed for popup attack mode, leaving the rest as sea skimmers. They had good long range, out to 600 kilometers on this variant, but only a 200Kg warhead. The German warships had belt armor exceeding 300mm, and there would be no time to program the missiles for top down approach as Fedorov had advised.
But who needs missiles, thought Gromyko? I’m a sub Captain, and we still have plenty of torpedoes. The Type 65 would be the preferred choice, my 50/50 weapon against large surface ships. It will range out 50 kilometers and give me 50 knots in speed, and I have a few of the big 557Kg warheads, the wake homing model. In fact, I even have those special warheads. One of those would take out the entire German fleet, but I don’t think Admiral Volsky would want me to do that here. They’re aboard for the hunter killer subs out there that would be stalking me in 2021. This is not their time.
Once in a little closer, I can go to my Type-53 torpedoes, a little slower, and with a smaller 307Kg warhead, but they can also detect the water churn made by a ship, and follow it to find the target. So my attack envelope is from 20 to 50 kilometers, well before they could ever come in range of this British battleship I’m defending.
Yes, he thought. Here come three battleships, but no destroyers. Even if they had six or seven escorts up there, all they would do is make target selection a little more difficult. No ships in these waters, except for that British Type 45 and Kirov itself, would have a chance at detecting my boat. So in another couple hours we begin the bullfight. It will be like shooting fish in a barrel—big fish, to be sure, but they will die just the same when those warheads break their keels or wreck their propulsion and steering gear. He looked over at Chernov again, seeing the man was still alert and active at his station.
“Still have a leash on those German battleships?”
“Of course, sir. They’re noisy as hell.”
“Good. Let me know when they come inside our 50K range radius.”
The Matador had made his choice.
* * *
The Germans were coming, shocked and angered by the terrible fate of Graf Zeppelin, and bent on getting revenge. Gneisenau was out in front, making 30 knots, with Scharnhorst following about a kilometer behind, and Tirpitz steaming prominently in the rear. The Destroyer Thor and cruiser Prinz Eugen stood by the dying carrier, trying to pull any man alive out of the water, but now Graf Zeppelin had rolled over an slipped beneath the waves, a total loss, and they were slowly following in the wake of the bigger German ships.
Aboard Hindenburg, Lütjens got the news an hour after dawn, and he was none too happy to learn what had happened. Damn those British naval rockets, he thought. How in god’s name can they hit our ships with such lethal accuracy? This is shaping up to be another disaster at sea, just like the first sortie last year. Ever since we got those orders to turn about and find this old British battleship, the entire plan has come unraveled. We should be well out to sea now, and feasting on the convoys like a pack of sharks. Let the British come to us, and then see what they get. Yet haven’t they done exactly that, he thought grimly? And now we lose the best fleet carrier we have.
In one violent attack, those rockets have changed the entire situation here. Now we’ve lost that powerful air wing, and most of our top fighter cover as well. It means the British carriers will matter here again, and my bet is that there are more than one out there, with spotter planes up this very moment to verify our position. How long before we are under air attack? Only six Stukas and three fighters got aloft from Graf Zeppelin, and now I must order them to find us here and try to land on the Goeben. That will give us eighteen planes, but it will be twice the capacity of that carrier. We can juggle planes for a while, but for how long? We haven’t the aviation fuel aboard the Goeben to keep that up. So we will have to ditch planes, and that will be very bad for morale.
That is the least of my trouble. Raeder will have fits as well. He’s been sitting on those remaining carrier projects like a mother hen ever since Graf Zeppelin proved its worth at sea. He has Peter Strasser nearly complete, and then there is that French ship we captured at Saint Nazaire. We will likely throw time, steel, and Deutschmarks away to build those out, useful as they might be. What good are they if we cannot protect them? These naval rockets trump every weapon afloat on any ship in the fleet!
What happens when the Führer hears about this? He will make Raeder’s fits seem like a poetry recital. The man has already canceled the other two H Class battleships, which means Hindenburg is an only child, the first and last of its kind. I stand here upon this Goliath, and yet, out there somewhere, David waits with his sling. These rockets have upset the entire balance of naval warfare. The only thing we have that can escape them are the U-Boats, and something tells me that is where we should have put our entire naval construction effort. It will come down to the U-boats in the years ahead. By the time we get these naval rockets, we may have very little else afloat to use them.
“Adler,” he said gruffly. “What is Topp doing now?”
“He has put on speed and is moving to intercept Rodney, as ordered.”
“Yes, but ordered by who? Have you seen this message from Wilhelmshaven?” He handed off the signal, a restrained fury simmering within him now.
“Repeat order needing confirmation,” Adler read aloud. “Objective is as per original orders in Fall Rheinübung.” He looked at Lütjens, a bemused expression on his face.
“But sir, we had a very clear order to the contrary. You read it yourself.”
“Yes? Well who sent it, that is what I would like to know?” said Lütjens. “Alright, the British certainly know we are here, so I see no point in observing radio silence. I want immediate confirmation from Wilhelmshaven. Are we to engage Rodney or turn west again for the convoy lanes?”
“That question may be moot,” said Adler. “Topp is closing on the battleship now. His task group will be more than enough to finish it off.”
“Perhaps, but do not forget that ship has 16-inch guns, and the British know how to use them. And what about Graf Zeppelin?”
“Most regrettable,” said Adler. “Yet all the more reason to seek our revenge. An eye for an eye.”
Lütjens fumed. This could be the final sortie of the Kriegsmarine, he thought, our last hurrah.
“We cannot trade ships with the British and hope to survive this war,” he said with a harried look. “Here we have already lost the most important ship in the fleet with the death of Graf Zeppelin, and sent Kaiser Wilhelm to the docks at Brest for good measure.”
“And we have sunk an enemy cruiser and destroyer,” Adler reminded him.
“Oh?” Lütjens batted that aside. “Tell me, which side of that apple cart would you buy, Adler?”
The Kapitan had nothing more to say, his eyes shifting out to sea, a tense edge to his movements. He was like a bow pulled tight, an arrow waiting to strike, but held in breathless stillness, the quiver of the Admiral’s hand restraining him at every turn. His quest for vengeance was now even more important in his mind. The loss of Graf Zeppelin could not go unanswered, and here Lütjens was juggling two contradictory orders, one pulling them east, the other west. He feared the Admiral would take the easy road, and turn about yet again, cowed by the rocket attack that had put Graf Zeppelin under the sea. Then the next blow fell, like a cold fist striking his face when the runner came in from the signals room.
* * *
No one saw it coming. The
big 650mm torpedo had been coursing through the waters at a shallow depth of just 20 meters, seeking the German battleships. A second torpedo followed in its wake, and their keen senses had detected the churning thrum of the enemy formation long ago. They surged in, about 400 meters off the port bow of Gneisenau, and then began a wide arcing turn, sweeping inexorably around and boring in on the ship. The first would strike aft, about ten meters forward of the main propulsion shaft and steering gear, the second would run right under the ship and explode amidships, the fierce upwelling and shock bubble literally lifting the ship’s gut above sea level when it exploded. It was to be a very bad day for Kapitan Otto Fein and his crew.
Aboard Scharnhorst, cruising behind, Kapitan Kurt Hoffman rushed out onto the weather bridge, his eyes wide with shock when he saw his brother ship stricken. He had seen the rockets come earlier, tearing the pre-dawn sky to shreds, and immolating Graf Zeppelin—now this! How could the British have a submarine capable of scoring two hits like that, when we were running at 30 knots? It would take a miracle to line up that shot. He had to be just waiting out there, and we must have run right across his sights. Yet a hit like this was almost unprecedented!
“Fifteen points to starboard!” he shouted back to his helmsman, determined to make sure his own ship did not suffer a similar fate. He would begin a zig-zag course at once, though it would not matter. Gromyko’s torpedoes could not be fooled. They were not dumb weapons, running true as aimed. They needed no human eye puckered in the eyecups of a periscope to find their target for them, and no evasive maneuver Scharnhorst was capable of could elude them. Hoffmann had just witnessed the fate of the entire German surface fleet. Given time, and as long as he still had torpedoes, Gromyko and Kazan could destroy the entire German Navy, just as Kirov might have destroyed it, single handedly, with the mailed fist of those plunging Moskit-IIs. Hoffmann did not know that, but it was something he secretly feared since the first moment he saw these new British weapons. For now, his eyes were still riveted on Gneisenau.
Paradox Hour Page 25